Page 7 of Tangled Up

She takes a sip of vodka and tonic, watching me. “When’s the last time you had sex?”

That brings me around. “While we’re on the subject?”

“Touch therapy is actually very effective in treating anxiety.” She uncrosses her arms with a shrug. “Lack of safe, physical intimacy leads to elevated stress, which leads to a host of other ailments, including a weakened immune system. You know this.”

Nodding, I finish my drink. “Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Just making an observation.”

“If Iwereto give you my professional advice, doctor, I’d say you need to man up and face whatever you’re not telling me. Trauma is treated in a variety of ways, but they all amount to the same thing—you have to confront what happened and see that it can’t hurt you anymore.”

She makes it sound so simple.

The bartender points at my empty tumbler, but I shake my head no. I gaze at the melting ice and wonder if I’ll ever reach a safe distance from what happened.

When I don’t respond, Larsen leans closer. “It wouldn’t hurt to get laid while you’re at it.”

“I have about as much time for a relationship as you do.”

“I hate to break it to you guys,” Greg Weston throws an arm around my neck, jovially interrupting our conversation. “We’re at a bar, not the hospital morgue.”

Greg is the newest member of our crew. An anesthesiologist, he’s been at the hospital two years, and he fits seamlessly into our group.

I elbow him in the ribs. “Get off me, kid.”

He laughs, pushing my shoulder. “I’m older than you, asshole, and nowhere near as broody.”

“What did the bartender say to the horse?” Asher Moore saunters up behind him.

I know the answer, but I humor him. “What?”

“Why the long face?” He stops beside Larsen. Her nose wrinkles at his lame joke. “What? Is this about that pileup last week?”

“Here we go,” I groan. “Asher’s dick is so big—”

“It was an intense morning,” Lars interrupts, and I almost think she’s protecting me.

Asher nudges my arm. “You’re getting soft, Becky. That pileup was just another Tuesday morning for me.”

Exhaling a laugh, I shake my head at his cheeky nickname. Asher and I have been friends since I was a resident, and his easy going nature does a lot to lift the weight pressing down in my chest.

When I started at Bayside, he made a place for me in a hospital where people expected me to be as big an asshole as my famous brain-surgeon father.

New flash: I haveneverbeen that guy.

“I know you’re not using a female name to imply Beck is weak.” Larsen arches an eyebrow at him. “You’re insufferable, but you’re not ignorant.”

“Is that a compliment from the Iron Lady?” He catches her around the waist, briefly lifting her off her feet. “Ease up, Lars. You know I’m only messing with the boy.”

“Bravado is often a mask hiding a deep sense of inadequacy.”

“Nothing inadequate here.” He bends an elbow, showing off his massive biceps. “You’re looking at Mr. January for the Firefighters of Tampa Christmas calendar. Cover model.”

“Oh, great.” She laughs, finishing her drink.

Asher got roped into modeling for the Tampa firefighter calendar last year, and while it was “just for fun,” it earned a ton of money for charity. So much so, he took it over this year, with the Burn Foundation being the primary recipient.

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